The war had done that for them.

For ever since the night when his eighteen-year-old boy had walked into his den and said, "Father, I am eighteen," and stood looking into his eyes and waiting for the word that came straight and unhesitating, "I know, boy, you are my son and you must go, for I cannot," ever since that night, which seemed now to belong to another age, these two had faced each other as men.

Now they were talking about the young man's life work.
"Frankly, I don't like it, Dad," said the son.
"Easy to see that, Jack." "I'm really sorry.

I'm afraid anyone can see it.

But somehow I can't put much pep into it." "Why ?" asked the father, with curt abruptness.
"Why?
Well, I hardly know.